


the cold will have to do

by ospreyx



Category: RWBY
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Worship, Bottom James Ironwood, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Injury Recovery, Light Angst, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29483814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ospreyx/pseuds/ospreyx
Summary: They are more alike than James wants to admit.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/James Ironwood
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	the cold will have to do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AndyAstral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndyAstral/gifts).



> a fic i've had sitting around untouched in my docs manager for several months now. no reason not to drop it ♡

Just like the first time they met, Qrow’s arrival is calamitous. 

Except what makes it so unreal is not the stolen airship or the crash landing in Mantle. It is the fact that he is _there_. He is there, standing before James with eight surrogate children and gravity bolas binding their wrists together.

There is a unique clarity that comes with the way Remnant slows to a grating crawl upon its axis. There is a glasslike stillness to the air, on the verge of shattering with the thin breath he takes. There is another second, another heartbeat, another moment that drags on for eons within the stilted breath of the cosmos, and then James orders his men to untie them.

He does not understand the tension that releases in Qrow’s jaw, the twinge of his throat, the gleam in his eye as if something is a breath away from falling apart. Perhaps it is, with the look that passes over Qrow’s face before they enter his office, raw and aching like a wound left to fester. James recognizes it, even if Qrow is not the same man that said goodbye to him when Beacon fell.

Neither of them are the same. There has been too much time and too much space and too many secrets shaking the world until it begins to splinter. There has been too much uncertainty, too much time spent waiting and hoping and wondering - and at the end of it all, Qrow is somehow still _alive_ , and James does not know what to say.

What he does know is how to invite them into his office. There is nothing to waver on with concrete plans and a common goal. His voice is blessedly steady when his heart is not, and he explains the details of his communications project with a practiced ease. Except every fleeting glance to Qrow is another crack in the foundation, every bit of eye contact as tumultuous as a thunderclap.

It has been two years, _two years_ , of leaving his window open at night, wondering if a crimson-eyes crow would ever arrive.

It almost seems like a lifetime away, the night Beacon fell, the night Qrow spoke to him with the finality of a goodbye. Two years followed, full of days spent seething, nights spent wondering; two years of wondering what it was that stopped him from spilling every confession that pounded alongside his heartbeat, in his throat and on his tongue, demanding to be said when he did not have the strength to.

He thinks back to that night often, amongst others. Thinks back to that night when he should not, thinks for a year and a half before he starts to crumble. A year and a half is spent in denial, because Qrow is strong and his will to survive is just as strong as James’ will to trudge onwards. If there is any one person that James can believe in, any single person in Remnant that James can trust, it is him.

Then it was six months of mourning, of drowning in meetings and paperwork alike, because even the strongest can fall. Beacon was a testimony to that. Six months of a wound left bare, refusing to knit back together just yet. Now, it is thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of his heart pounding hard enough to nearly shatter his sternum. Thirty minutes of ice rushing through veins, colliding with wires, coalescing to form something thinner than blood, heavier than the iron within it.

It is merely thirty minutes after Remnant was shoved off its axis before James finally says something to Qrow.

There are many things he wishes to say, but there is not a single thing he knows how to say. All he knows is duty and vigilance - he does not know what it is that has him feeling as if the shattered moon is on the verge of falling out of its perch in the sky. What jumps in his wrists and his fingertips, up along his throat and in the subtle clench of his jaw, are things he did not think Qrow would still be around to hear.

“I meant it when I said it was good to see you again,” is what James says.

 _I missed you,_ is what he means. 

Qrow knows, of course. There is not much he does not know, because it is decades of friendship and a mutual responsibility that bridges the distance. Two years have passed, and neither of them are the same, but the familiarity is still there.

James recognizes the shift in Qrow’s expression. It is subtle, something too hurt to be yearning, something too guarded to be anything but pained. It must be disarming, James guiltily thinks, but there is nothing else that he knows how to say. He is one for strategy, not for talk. He is one to convince and to coerce, not to soothe.

But he is one to touch. It is touch that has always been grounding, touch that holds the only true familiarity there is, touch that breaks the tension like a wire pulled taut until it snaps.

It is a wholly different kind of tension that weighs heavier than atmosphere, a tension wrought from two years of travel and battle and experiences that he hopes Qrow can have the strength to breathe a word of. It stems from two years of distance with neither of them knowing where the middle ground is. It hisses like a spark from flint to steel that is too weak to catch, heats like gunpowder that aches to ignite, but it does not come to that head.

It does not, because James says, “They’re safe here.”

All seven of the students he arrived with are grown by now. They are loaded with the weight of the world, and they are only a few favors away from being licensed Huntsmen and Huntresses. Nevertheless, there is no secret to the way Qrow still flocks them together, trails closely after them, almost isn’t able to allow them to follow after Penny into the long, winding halls of Atlas Academy.

It is surreal, the heat in Qrow’s breath against the crook of James’ neck as he says, “They’ve been through some shit.” Against James’ back, his fingers tremble as if his bones are still hollow, as if there is an unforgiving wind beneath too-thin wings that threatens to tear them apart. “All of them. They’ve been through some shit.”

The deadpan bites, stings, drips like poison that curdles beneath his skin, and already, James understands what it is. He shifts, presses his nose to Qrow’s temple, and it is the lack of whiskey there that clues him in on what might have happened.

Qrow smells like ozone and ashes and blood left to dry. He smells like an empty flask and a constant hand on Harbinger’s hilt and bruises under his eyes that weigh heavier than all of Atlas. His breath comes out stilted when James reassures, “They had you.”

“They had each other,” Qrow corrects with a snort, but there is not enough energy in it to be anything more than defeated. “With a couple of bad luck charms to make it hell along the way.”

James only shakes his head. “They’re here because of you.” Just over Qrow’s shoulder, Penny herds the students off, all equally as ragged as Qrow is. Weapons in dire need of upgrades, clothing left to fray, a universally held breath that none of them know how to let go of. Idly, he muses, “They’ll finally be able to get their licenses, at least.”

“I guess.” Qrow pulls away, murmuring, “But when do they get to be _kids?_ ”

James means to be placating when he starts, “They’re grown men and women -”

“That’s not what I meant. They -” Qrow pauses. It is there again, that look, the one that precedes every secret, the one that tugs at every fibre of James’ heart. Instead, he repeats with a resigned sigh, “They’ve been through some shit, and I didn’t help.” 

He shoves his hands into his pockets and trails down the hallway after them. James almost stops him, but he does not dare, not when Qrow curls in on himself and refuses to turn back. He is both an enigma and an open book, because while there is no secret to the rattling breaths and the sallow skin and hollow eyes, there is plenty to hide behind the silence.

Later, once the students and Oscar are settled, James seeks Qrow out. Though, as always, he eludes James with the ease of snowfall, the fluidity of the fog that rolls over the powdery horizon.

* * *

(Qrow is not all that elusive when he is drunk, though.

James is there when he can be. He is there throughout the years since they first met, either through convenience or through a mutual obligation, but this is one of the rare occasions that he is merely there to be a friend.

Ironically, the day of the funeral is lovely. It is late into the springtime; there are flowers that flourish along the sidelines, pearly whites spotted in a red deeper than blood, and although they rarely met, James knows that Summer would have loved them. The gentle kiss of sunlight on his skin is remarkably pleasant, and were it any other day, it would be serene.

It would be a day to relish, to behold, to enjoy, but there is nothing but mourning to be done. James feels terribly out of place, but he is there for Qrow. He is there while Qrow stares blankly ahead, unseeing, unblinking. He is there when Qrow slips away from the crowd, murmuring something about needing space that no one wants to give him, needing time that was stolen from them.

He is there to pick up Qrow from the bar a few hours afterwards, laying outside on the sidewalk covered in his own bile.

This is a side of Qrow that few have yet to see, the wound he has been hiding left bare and raw enough to fester. These kinds of nights are extremely rare, but James is there for him regardless. They do not talk - or at least, James does not talk, because Qrow is usually the one who rambles on for as long as he can. He is endlessly entertained, and he is cocky, and he is _shameless._

He is many things when it is liquid courage that fuels him. There are many things he does, many barriers he breaches, many offenses he commits when he can act before he thinks twice about it.

Except this is the only night where Qrow does not talk.

He is different, but not in the same way that sobriety makes him different. There is a part of him left gaping and hollow, but not in the same way that liquor leaves him empty by the end of the night. James is the one who holds him together. Changes him out of his clothes, wipes the tear stains from his cheeks, takes his flask before he can spill its contents over himself again.

He is pale in the lamplight, not sickly but not there either; he is fragile, not like glass but like the hollow bones of a bird left to wither, not shattered but brittle all the same. There is no off-handed flirting, no smouldering looks lingering just a little too long, nothing that accompanies the liquor and the privacy between them; there is only silence now, broken late into the night when James finally helps him into bed.

“You’re too nice,” Qrow tells him. Soft, just shy of broken, and James glances at him. “You’re always too nice.”

“Too tolerant,” James easily corrects. “I’m also not the only one who would do this for you.”

Qrow sets his jaw. He takes a chance, or at least appears to - opens his mouth and the words are there, on his tongue, pounding up into reverence from the shuddering weight in his chest, but he snaps it back shut.

Instead, there is pain. 

There always has been, but it is different now, especially vulnerable in a way that James does not recognize. It festers in the rose-tinted hue of his eyes, makes them gleam before he glances elsewhere. There is a want there, as well - it is tangible, laying thick like static, stringing tight like white noise, but it is not the same kind of want that James is used to. 

This one is perilous. This one is deeper, something that reverberates from the chambers of his heart, from the too-quick pulse and too-heavy atmosphere and too-wounded gaze that will not meet James. It is one that cannot be entertained, one as uncertain as the future that lays ahead, and James does not know what to do.

He does not recognize what is left in front of him. There is a wound there, unraveled from its bandages too early, and he does not know how to mend it. He does not know how to guide Qrow back, how to keep him from ripping at the seams, how to make him whole again, but he wants to. He wants badly enough to ache.

At least that ache is similar.

Wanting what he cannot have. Wanting what he _should not_ have. 

What is also similar is the smile that Qrow forces onto his lips. James knows what this is even before Qrow speaks, because if there is one thing he is good at, it is running from whatever plagues him.

“‘Course not,” Qrow laughs, but the mirth is not there. The light in his eyes is gone. It is rough, hollow, dragged out of his chest when he jokes, “Harbinger’s always there for me.”

Something curls into James’ chest, hooks into either side of his sternum, wrenches at it until it cracks. “Just Harbinger?”

Qrow looks back up at him. His eyes are pretty, James helplessly thinks, pretty when he is so close to breaking, prettier than the hazel-lit lining over the horizon as dawn pierces the veil. There is this odd expression there, something distinctly raw, something so vulnerable that James does not understand.

He does not understand it for a long time.

He also does not understand what it is in Qrow’s voice when he quietly answers, “And you.”

Qrow is not hiding, not anymore, solely because there is nowhere to hide. There is no safe space to shove himself into, nothing but an empty casket and an empty flask and an empty voice that is nothing like he used to be.

It is a confession, in a way, and James would follow suit if it was any other time and place. He would follow suit later, once time has soothed what was broken that day. He would take that leap if he was not too weak to consider the slim chance of a happy ending in a future that is too dark to see through.)

* * *

A few days pass before Qrow approaches him.

There are seven new Huntsmen and Huntresses taking up missions and patrols. All of them are in the training room, sparring with both the students and the Ace Ops; the eighth one to arrive is by James’ side for short periods of time, holding a cane that he steadily becomes more accustomed to, flushing like hellfire when he is complimented for his hard work.

James catches Qrow’s eye along the way. Holds that gaze, largely enigmatic across the room, but faintly, he can recognize the way it softens. It is no surprise that Qrow seeks him out shortly afterwards.

He comes in the form of feathers and clawed feet that patter against the windowsill. James does not look away from the holographic screen before him. He only listens to the brief flurry of wings, dropping from the window to the tiled floor, and then soon after, the metallic clunk of Harbinger being set aside.

“You could try the door next time,” James finally says. “Like a normal person.”

There is a huff, some weak semblance of a laugh, because it is too early for jokes, too raw for mirth. It is both too early and too late. Two years too late and a week too early. And yet still, when James finally turns to look at Qrow, something rushes in the space between his ribs - warm in the half that is flesh, electric in the half that is metal.

Qrow is no longer just a concept, a memory, a whisper; he is there, breathing, _living_ , solid and whole with all the blood and bones still in his body. Somehow, that is more harrowing than the night he came to accept that Qrow was probably dead. That is more distressing than the night he turned his back to Qrow only to watch one of his airships spiral into the ground several hundred feet away.

Qrow might as well have risen from the dead. He might as well have dug himself out of the grave that he carved from his own flaws. But he never died, and he has two years of bruises and scars and sleepless nights that probably cut his life shorter than the alcohol did.

At the very least, he does not reek of whiskey anymore. He does not sway, does not slur, does not saunter. He is different, so different, and it should be harrowing. It should be upsetting, this echo from the past crashing back into James’ life a changed man, but it is not.

James only sees his tentative friend approach his desk. Each subtle reminder comes and goes, just as they always have. Like any other time, even with the stakes so high. James is reminded of the warmth that has long since left him, returning slowly now as he watches Qrow lean against the desk and immediately start toying with one of the shinier pens.

Qrow lifts the pen and holds it up against the glow of the sunset. Lets it shine bright, loses himself briefly to its lustre, but James does not see the appeal in it. He never has, but it is not the pen he focuses on - it is the light of the sunset in Qrow’s eyes, not bright but simmering, a red like the pulsing embers of a fire soon to catch.

“Your fault for leaving the window open,” Qrow finally drawls.

It is lazy, rough, a sound so ragged that James cannot help wonder how it would feel muffled against his skin. He smiles, and even if it is thin and weak and broken, he still jokes, “I can push you back out.”

The grin that earns him is the balm that spreads over burns, the stitches that weave through flesh, the bandages that are placed there to hold everything in place. It is healing, mending, the shattered parts of him moulding back together when he listens to Qrow taunt, “Like you can even catch me.”

It is as if nothing changed. It has always been that way - weeks, months, even years of limited contact, and yet they pick up where they last left off as if it has only been a day. 

“I did once.”

And what a day that was. Barely ten in the morning, perhaps before Qrow even had breakfast, already slurring and laughing at every little thing presented to him. At the very least, he was capable of mindlessly flapping until he crash-landed back onto Ozpin’s desk. Probably survival instinct, James supposed.

“I was drunk,” Qrow needlessly says, waving it off as if it is nothing, because of course his ego is still wounded. James almost laughs. “So that doesn’t count.”

It occurs to James yet again that Qrow is, miraculously enough, not drunk. He stares for a moment, takes in the sobriety, bearable only now that his Aura is still quite high and the nights are no longer perilous.

“You’re doing better,” James tentatively prompts. “Better than I’ve seen in a long time.”

The statement seems to be disarming. It takes Qrow a long moment before he manages to say, “You could’ve just told me that I looked awful.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

There is a stern finality that James cannot help but include, because if there is one thing Qrow is spectacular at, it is deflecting. If there is one thing that is as practiced and easy as wielding his weapon, it is pretending as if every achievement he reaches means nothing. James is stubborn when he has to be, and sometimes, so is Qrow.

But this is not one of those times. This is a time where Qrow is dragged out of his hiding space and left raw and glistening like a wound torn anew. This is a time where Qrow grows quiet, no longer ruggedly confident or annoyingly snarky. It is like before, like all those years ago, like the night James still sometimes thinks about when he should not.

Qrow sets the pen back down into its holder. Reluctantly, he admits, “Things happened.” He refuses to meet James’ eye when he adds, “Almost took the kids to the grave with me.”

Not an early grave, James notes. Just a grave, dug by his own two hands. A grave that waited for him after Beacon fell, a grave that James feared was occupied for the longest time.

James still does not know what happened. He can put some pieces together, gathered from the updated Grimm directory and the quiet talks they sometimes have with Penny. He can put other slivers of an image in place when he sees how stiffly Qrow talks to Oscar and how closely an innocuous crow sometimes follows a band of Huntresses on their nights out to Mantle.

“You’re more capable than that,” James says. “You kept them safe. You shouldn’t undermine that.”

It is meant to be a reassurance, something to soothe an old wound, but it only festers, only draws a sharp glance from Qrow.

“You don’t know what happened.”

“I don’t,” James agrees. “For the most part, I’ve been kept in the dark.”

Evidently, that is the wrong thing to say. Qrow glances fleeting back out the window. He is a breath away, a heartbeat from leaving in a flurry of black feathers and too-thin bones and a mind that is blissfully empty. “It’s not _keeping you in the dark_ if they’re just things you don’t need to know.”

“There’s a multitude of things that could have happened in the past two years, none of which were pleasant. The least I can ask is for a little more than half-truths.”

Qrow laughs, but the sound is derisive, a spiral reminiscent of the Fall; it is almost too quick to process, too sudden to follow, enough to give James pause. His heart beats once, twice, hard against the Dust-filled cavity that cradles it.

“If you’re gonna accuse us of lying, I’m leaving,” Qrow warns.

“That isn’t what I said -”

“Then what are you saying?” Qrow snaps. “That you’re being left out? Like this is something you _need_ to know about?”

The frustration that brings is white-hot and seething. It digs under his skin, this feeling of being in the dark, the nagging feeling that tells him that they are still hiding something. But that is what secrets are meant to do, James thinks; they fester like poison, fray like aged fabric, shatter like a hammer to a vase. 

That is what is happening, that is what this is leading to - a breaking point, an edge, an explosion waiting to happen. That is what this is, when every confession James had for years on end was left to die alongside Qrow. When he spent enough sleepless nights and stressful mornings wondering why he didn’t stop Qrow and pour his heart out while he still had a chance.

“I’m saying that I was _worried_.” The glass shatters into pieces too small to gather, too jagged to put back together. There is a pulse in James’ throat and an ache between his ribs. “Taiyang called in a favor and mentioned you once and never again, and after two years, I - I thought you were _dead._ ”

It is selfish, James realizes, it is probably selfish and petulant because it should not be about him. It is about Qrow, and the threat just outside their borders, and the time that they do not have. Their time ran out years ago. Their time was cut short when the days became longer and the drinking got heavier; their time ran out when the aches became stronger and the secrets grew heavier.

There is only now - not before, not long ago, not in memories or in fantasies, but _now_. In his office, the sunset bleeding into twilight, the blue-tinged hues of every holographic screen along the walls igniting Qrow’s skin. He looks paler, somehow, his eyes wide again, his lips parted, but he does not say a word. 

He does not, he cannot, not until he says, “I almost did.”

It is both better and worse, knowing that he _almost_ died, that James’ fears were _almost_ true, that he _almost_ was not there to ensure the kids and the relic were safe in Atlas. James _almost_ does not believe it, because if there is anyone who has stared death in the face and returned in one piece, it is Qrow.

But Qrow looks like he has been dragged out far beyond his limits, strewn painfully tight until he begins to tear. He glances out the window again, and James knows what that look is - he has seen it when Qrow watches the kids, still not used to there not being a threat around every corner, still poised ready to withdraw Harbinger at the slightest signal. 

It is in Qrow’s voice, as well, ragged and quiet when he says, “Bastard went after Ruby. Wanted her alive.”

That seems more distressing to him, because there has always been only one thing that he fears worse than death, and that is losing those he loves. James finds himself asking before he can stop himself, “Who?”

Qrow shrugs. Tries to fall back to that feigned nonchalance like any other time, but a scrape closer to death than ever before has a way of draining any mirth left in his body. “Am I supposed to know?” 

James pins him with an exasperated look. 

It is heavy enough for Qrow to reluctantly murmur, “Look. All I know is that the wrong people want Ruby alive.” The tendon in his neck twinges. He glances towards Harbinger, his only source of comfort when there is no touch to tether him and no warmth to rid him of the haunted chill that bites down to his bones. “The rest, they want dead.”

“That won’t happen.”

James cannot help the words that spew forth, an equal mixture of instinct and impulse. That is always how he has been - always making the promises that he has no right to tell, unspoken agreements that he will never be strong enough to keep from falling apart. Qrow gives him an odd look, just shy of wounded, a little past defeated.

“How do you know that?” he flatly asks. “How do you know things won’t go to shit?”

“I don’t,” James says, and it is almost a plea when he adds, “but I’m doing what I can.”  
  
“You better be careful,” Qrow teasingly drawls. “It’s starting to sound personal.”

James takes a small breath. Holds it long enough to hurt. Exhales, and admits before he can lose the strength to, “What if it was?” In the wake of the confession, Qrow only stares, looks as if the support beneath his feet is not there anymore. “This is about stopping Salem as much as it is about keeping Atlas safe, but on a smaller scale, it’s also about you.”

A nearly imperceptible flush emerges high on Qrow’s cheekbones, as lovely as his eyes, as captivating as the sunlight that dances in them. He tries to be disarming, tries to gain some semblance of control again by saying with a dismissive wave of the hand, “Can’t afford to lose one of the assets, right?”

There is an echo of an injury somewhere in there, laced within his words like poison laced with blood. James finally reaches out, almost surprised with how close they have drifted, but he is not ignorant enough to think it is anything but deliberate. It has always been this way. There have always been offenses, but never as precarious as it is now.

Qrow is solid underneath his hands, solid and alive and _there_ , breaths slow and shallow as if he needs to make the conscious effort to remember how to. The tension that sat upon Qrow’s shoulders melts as the dying rays of sunlight do, pouring past James’ hands and onto the floor where neither of them can pay it any mind.

“Can’t afford to lose my friend,” James corrects. “We don’t always see eye to eye, but I do care about you.”

He squeezes Qrow’s shoulders before he lets go, but they do not drift away, are not drawn apart like the moon draws the tide. There have been moments like these before - moments where they are both too close and too far, where it is both too much and not enough, when they are both drowning and suffocating in the sea of quiet wants and even quieter decisions that they cannot make yet.

But it is different when their time has run dry. It is different when the sun dips low over the horizon, bleeds heavy across the sky in rows of velvets, a sight that may or may not be there the next night. There is security, for the most part; there is time, all things considered, but James is not blind enough to think that Salem is not coming.

That battle is an inevitability. That is not paranoia - that is a fact. And, in a way, so is this. 

So is Qrow’s little huff and the eye roll that accompanies it. So is the next step he takes further into James’ personal space. Another inevitability, set in stone from the first time they bickered, the first time they met during the Vytal festival decades ago. The collision is absolute, starting from when Qrow first pinned him with both his scythe and with a gaze that was too heavy to ignore.

“You’ve got Jacques to annoy you when I’m gone,” Qrow says.

“I find that his company isn’t as enjoyable as yours.”

Another secret turned confession, but it does not feel so ground-breaking, does not rip down to his core like the blizzard winds that rake through the tundra. Qrow’s expression softens, his smile barely there, and he states, “So I don’t annoy you.”  
  
James almost smiles back. “I didn’t say that.”

Qrow snorts at that. “Yeah, well. For what it’s worth . . . I can’t lose you, either.” He speaks carefully, slowly, as if he is treading on thin ice. “After everything that’s happened, I . . . I don’t think I can handle that. Watching you die. Or finding you in another hospital, looking like they just brought you back. Fuck, you probably were and I just wasn’t there to see it.”

“Atlesian technology isn’t grand enough to bring one back from the dead,” James tries to tease, but Qrow only withers.

“Yeah, and that’s worse,” he admits. James cannot shake the feeling that plagues him, like an explosion is about to catch, like there is a matchstick to a trail of gasoline waiting to ignite. He sees the flicker of that flame, the spark there that will burn them both to ash, heavy in Qrow’s all-too-familiar words when he says, “That you were _almost_ dead, and I almost wasn’t there to say goodbye.”

It is impulsive, this urge to spew every promise that he knows Qrow wants to hear. Promises Qrow needs, promises _he_ needs, but there is little need for promises that can and will be broken. There is little patience to bother making them, as well. There is no promise, only a hope, and for a small while, that is enough.

Hope is all he has; silence is all he knows.

He knows this, as well, as innate as breathing, as unrelenting as a heartbeat. It is one of those disasters waiting to happen - his gaze drops lower to Qrow’s lips, then to the cross that rests just under the dip of his clavicles. They have been here before, many times before, but they have never been so tired. They have never been on the verge of collapsing.

They have never been so unsure of what will come next.

Qrow bites his lip. He is not naive, he also is not blind. Neither of them are. James is drawn to the movement like a moth to the flame, and that is enough for him to say, “This isn’t a good idea.”

He does not need to clarify a practiced response. Qrow tilts his head, almost birdlike, the smooth stretch of his neck all the more tantalizing in the honeyed glow of dusk. James prepares himself for a quip, for some ridiculous comment that will diffuse the situation like any other time.

Except Qrow only tells him, “You’re thinking too damn much. What do you want _right now?_ ”

“That’s a selfish way to think,” James murmurs. Whether it is to himself or to Qrow, he cannot say.

“Yup,” Qrow lightly agrees, almost carefree enough to be disarming. “But we’re allowed to be selfish when the end of the world’s right around the corner.”

“You’re awfully casual about that.”

“And you aren’t casual enough.”

Many things are difficult when Qrow is involved. It is hard to keep himself from reaching out again, hard to focus, hard to think. Or, in the past, it would be difficult not to snap back at him, not to flirt on those extremely rare nights, not to bicker until Glynda smacked them both.

There will only be more distance, more battles to fight and ground to cover and secrets to break. And Qrow will follow them, of course, just as he has always followed the grandest messes, the heaviest crimes. He will be gone, but that will come later, and for now, there is this.

For now, James says, “I might not be able to walk away from this.”

There is a heat to Qrow’s eyes again, stronger than the fleeting glances he’d spare in the past. He sidles ever so closer, or maybe it is James that does it, or maybe it is both of them. James doesn’t know; he can’t focus on much of anything outside of the craving that drives deep, sparking along the point where vein meets wire.

“Me neither,” Qrow breathes.

Perhaps it is a given, James briefly thinks, perhaps it is an absolute - it is like the heady rush of the tide, like the rise of the shattered moon on every tranquil night.

Qrow is the one who surges forth to tug him into a kiss. It is too much and not enough, too soft and too strong, too mind-numbing for the brief second it takes before James holds fast to his hips. There is no whiskey to pave the way with fire, no blood to remind James of the war that rages onwards. 

Qrow’s lips are soft against his, the sound he makes needy, nearly imperceptible. That is enough for James to break away for a moment, a heartbeat before he is delving in again, rougher than before, desperate now that the dam has shattered. He cannot help it, just like how the tide cannot help but rise, how the sun cannot help but set.

The rush is heady, the feeling divine; James swipes his tongue, pushes him back, and Qrow is tugging at his hair, pressing them flush together. The desk lets out an agonized creak when Qrow is shoved back against it. He sighs into the kiss, and James only tilts his head further, delves in until they share one breath.

There is a metallic clatter, one of his pen holders somehow getting knocked off the side. James supposes it is Qrow’s Semblance he has to thank for that. It is enough for Qrow to break away. He is panting, flushed, the red of his irises darker where they simmer in a ring around his pupils. His lower lip glistens, almost bruised, and James has never wanted him more.

Qrow falters, and then there is that broken look again, the hurt that stems deeper than anything else. “We’re not fucking in your office,” he murmurs. “Not tonight. Not after . . .”

He trails off, but James knows what he means. 

Not after the wound was reopened and began to weep anew. Not after they unraveled those bandages and unveiled the raw scrape that lay just underneath. Not after all these years, not after they have both admitted to this thing that they have been dancing around, not after everything they have been through.

Because if there is not a tomorrow, then this is it. Because if anything is guaranteed, it is this, set it stone solely for the night until they cannot stay any longer. Tomorrow is not a risk either of them want to take. A future is not something that they will pretend is a given, anymore.

So James nods and gently tells him, “Of course.” Quieter still, almost hopeful, he adds, “You can stay the night, if you’re comfortable.”

Qrow’s fingers trail lightly over his coat lapels, raising higher to undo the first button. “I think I’d be more than comfortable,” he says. “You know, you really gotta hook me up with a bigger bed. I feel cramped in that twin-sized garbage you gave me.”

“I give you an inch and you ask for a mile,” James muses wryly. “Are you ever satisfied with anything?”

For the first time in the past few days since he has arrived at Atlas, there is a genuine little smile on Qrow’s lips. Tired, weary, but there, igniting the mirth the shines faintly in his eyes.

“Nope.”

James cannot help the way he tugs Qrow forth by the hips anyways. Qrow makes an odd sound against his lips, something wounded, something on the verge of splintering. Banter only distracts from the world for a short while, and touch dulls the pain for an even shorter while.

His grip on Qrow is grounding. It tethers him, keeps him from spiraling out into the unknown, from floating off into the vast expanse of the universe that they were abandoned in. And Qrow clings just as strongly for as long as he will permit himself, because in the barest ways, in the most vulnerable lulls, they are alike.

* * *

(They are more alike than James wants to admit.

But eventually, he does. He admits to it, because it is easier than denial.

They are more alike when they are on the verge of falling apart. When they are vulnerable and exposed like a freshly picked scab. When they’ve been cracked open and laid bare for the world to see while they are too weak to pull themselves back into hiding.

It is Atlesian technology that both wrenches him apart and pieces him carefully back together.

There is war fire that rages through every capillary under his skin and hell fire that licks along every nerve in his spinal cord that has melded with Atlesian steel. He is swathed in a sea of narcotics that run like ice up his forearm. There is pain, and there are mumbles that accompany it - it is as if the nurses don’t want him to hear, as if the doctors believe he will break if they speak any louder.

It is a tragedy, some call it; an accident, others insist.

A miracle is what everyone agrees on. 

It is an unfathomable feat that Atlas will pride itself on for years to come. At one point, that is all he is, until Atlesian medicine and science grows grander than him. A miracle first, General after. A technological myth first, Headmaster second. But that happens later, and for now, this is all there is. There is only pain too sharp and breaths too wet and Dust that rattles too loudly.

This is it, James thinks when he is lucid enough to, this is what it is to be broken, this is what it means to be _fallible_.

This is what it means to be low. This is what it means to be torn down to the barest form and put back together at the very last moment. When awake, he is clean, wears white, glows blue over one clavicle. When asleep, there is ash in his throat, uniform and flesh pulsing the same red, wet coughs that rattle through the shattered remains of his chest.

For a while, it is a blur. The days meld together like torn flesh and a splintered rib cage and a hipbone too distorted to save.

For a while, he is alone. He breathes, and he aches, and he loses track of what is the thrum of Dust and what is a pulse.

That is until Qrow arrives. Until Qrow is there, at his bedside, holding his breath until it hurts, exhaling slowly as if that will somehow tether him to the ground. Until Qrow comes into focus, poised still as if the barest movement will shatter that glasslike tranquility of the room.

Harbinger is at his side, still withdrawn, still ready. His clothes are tattered and he isn’t wearing any of his jewelry. He looks as if he’s been dragged through hell and back again. He was not there for the battle; he is only there for the aftermath, but that is enough.

For a while, it is only Qrow. Not the first one - the only one.

To James, that is enough.

In a way, they have been here before. There are many things that James wants to say, so many confessions and secrets and promises that have had years to brew. Except he does not say a thing. He does not breathe a word, only because he does not have the strength to.

There is no space left for him to hide, only for him to remain silent. He realizes that oh, this is probably it, this is what it was back at the night of the funeral. This is that thing that leaves him aching, bursting, quaking like a leaf in the wind. Qrow is lovely, even when his brows are furrowed and his skin is deathly pale and his jaw remains clenched.

Qrow is lovely, so lovely, and James wonders what it would be like to draw him closer, what it would be like to feel a pulse against his own that was pure and natural and _whole._ He is vulnerable, he is broken, he is dragged raw and bloody, and he is glad that Qrow is the only one there to see it.

For a long time, he is glad that Qrow is the one who stayed by his side.

That is what ultimately makes him realize what this is - what it is in his chest, what it is that burns like sunlight under his skin, races between his mismatched lungs. 

He does not remember much from those tumultuous few weeks, but he does remember Qrow asking him at the start, “Who else is here?”

He speaks in a hushed tone, smooth and gentle, holding none of the usual gravel in it. He sounds like he is on some edge, on the verge of falling, clinging to the shattered remains of the support there. He speaks as if he expects James to crumble, to cave inwards, to fall in on himself like a star that succumbs to its own gravitational pull.

And perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps it was some figment of his imagination, some narcotic-induced hallucination, because he jokes, rough and hollow like Qrow did all those years ago, “Harbinger.”

Qrow’s lips quirk upwards for a fleeting moment. It is a laughable excuse for a smile. It is empty like James’ newly constructed chest, precarious like the trembling junction where skin meets metal. Qrow makes a move to reach out, but he stops. Retracts his hand like it hurts him to do it. There is so much want in his eyes that it _aches_.

“So just me, huh?” he hums, distant to his ears, softer than the stardust that scatters before every galaxy, every stretch of the unknown. “Like old times, I guess.”

Like old times, James thinks, like the times he was the one who kept Qrow together, like the times where he was the only one who knew how to keep Qrow from shattering like glass. He wonders if this is how Qrow felt before. 

He wonders if this is what it means to feel raw. To feel _fragile.)_

* * *

The way back to James’ quarters is unnecessarily arduous.

Though he supposes it would not be so difficult if he had the heart to pry Qrow off. But for the moment, for that brief moment that it takes for the fire to burn fast and the residual gunpowder to settle, it is perfect; Qrow’s lips pressed to his, fingers hooked into his collar, dropping lower to paw at him through his clothes as if that will make the process any faster.

But they do make it - James’ hands on his hips to still him, Qrow’s frustrated huff, their hands still roaming despite themselves - after twilight begins to settle and the sun no longer bleeds in faint velvets across the tundra. It is reminiscent of returning home, the ease in which Qrow settles in his lap, the pull of his bottom lip between Qrow’s own as they are slotted back together. 

There is a swell in his chest, lost between metal and bone alike, as hollow as it is divine. It is something reminiscent of loss in the form of touch and heat; it is grief that comes with the heady rush of the noise that is muffled against James’ lips. They should have done this earlier, he belatedly thinks, they should have done this when there was time.

It is frantic, desperate, the fingers that tug at his hair, the grind of Qrow’s hips against him. James almost forgets why they never have, almost lets go of every reason there is when Qrow’s lips feel sublime against his. He can forget what it means to pull oxygen into his veins, to have a heart that does not race in his throat, to have blood that does not run white-hot through his extremities when he drinks in Qrow’s sigh.

They meld perfectly together, diverging only when they absolutely have to; the vest Qrow wears is simple enough to undo, easy enough to peel off, but they must break away to remove the layers beneath. But it is worth it to see the flush of Qrow’s cheeks, the kiss-bruised glisten of his lips, burning brighter than the thin ring around his pupils like the blood beneath his skin.

It would be too surreal were it not for the heat of Qrow’s skin against James’ own or the weight in his lap that acts as a tether to Remnant. But he is there, looking debauched in a way that has nothing to do with liquor, needy in a way that James has yet to see before. James has never had the luxury of staring, of touching, of lingering for as long as he pleases.

But it is not long before Qrow yanks him forward again. James melts into the next kiss, languid and heady like the fog of twilight over the horizon that follows quickly after the last few honeyed rays of sunlight. His fingertips roam, both smooth metal and calloused skin, the small shiver beneath them almost imperceptible.

There are the ridges of Qrow’s ribcage, whole, symmetrical, natural; there are the faint outlines of scars, some ragged, some clean, all raised and discolored from improper aftercare. James recognizes some of them, echoes of battles hard won etched onto his skin for as long as he can remember. Others are wounds that were not meant for Qrow that he took anyways, stemming as far back as Beacon, wounds that he would endure again if he had to.

That is another way that they are the same. If there is one thing that they have always agreed on, one thing that they will always share, it is the innate need to protect. There are scars that come with names, memories, whispers of aches long since healed. James is not one to judge, even when he knows that some are careless and others are intentional.

He can’t, anyways. Not when he has metal instead of scar tissue to mirror that.

Qrow tenses when James’ fingertips linger over a distorted stretch of skin at his side. He breaks away, clamps a hand over James’, looks about ready to shatter. There is a stillness to him, a perilous edge to a thunderclap on the verge of striking, mellowing only once he takes a steadying breath.

That must be it, James thinks with an ache that pounds like a heartbeat in his throat, that must be the thing that Qrow has been hiding for so long. But it is not a new ache, and for a while, he may quell the questions that follow, holding the glasslike silence before Qrow is the one who finally says, “Nothing compared to losing a limb.”

His voice is blessedly calm, and thankfully, he does not shy away when James’ eyes fall to the remains of the wound. There is coping as much as there is healing. There are circular indents that remain, drains left to cleanse him, discolored skin where the infection festered the worst. He does not immediately recognize what it is that lingers in Qrow’s eye, but at the very least, it is not fear.

There is no fear as James’ fingertips trail slowly along the stretch of skin. There is something distinctly wounded, something that still requires time to mend itself, but at the very least, Qrow eases further in his lap. He presses his lips to James’ temple, lets out a breath that is just as thin and heart-wrenchingly fragile as the purple-tinged scar that remains.

“It could have killed you.” Metal glides along the scar tissue, the ghost of a sensation almost there, but a texture so miniscule is not so easy for him to catch on to. He turns his head, murmurs against the shell of Qrow’s ear, “I’m glad it didn’t.”

Qrow sighs, hardly there, but this close, it is tumultuous, almost enough to tear his heart at the seams. “I am, too,” he admits.

James presses his lips just below Qrow’s earlobe, then lower, along the stretch of his neck. There is a pulse there, blood that rushes beneath skin, breaths that steadily follow; he is there, and he is alive, and that is what matters. That is what matters, heat and skin and _life_ , pliant under his hands, responsive to the hint of teeth.

He cannot help the urge to latch onto Qrow’s pulse point, enough pressure in it to draw a small groan. A bruise blossoms beneath James’ lips, red-tinged purple like that of the nebulae that are breathed out into relevance. Qrow tilts his head further, the arch of his throat lovely, the twinge in it subtle under James’ teeth as he leaves another mark.

James tries not to think of how they will fade. Of how Aura will heal it, of how time will dull the ache, of how they will never truly last as long as he would like them to. He trails his fingertips against Qrow’s torso again, maps out the ridges and valleys of his skin, of scar tissue worn ragged, of careless wounds and thoughtless mending. He was not there for most of them, but he can be there from this point onwards.

He will be there until he cannot stay any longer, just as Qrow stays until duty inevitably draws him away. They will both be there until they cannot, but for the time being, it is only this, and he will cherish it.

It is tonight, and then the next, one step at a time until there is nowhere left to run to.

There is a peril in the want that weeps crimson in Qrow’s eyes when he pulls back, heavier than the moon, than the gravity that compels it, than the atmosphere packed tighter than wire around them. But James is used to risks and the promises in them, and he does not fight the hands at his shoulders, the fingers that curl tight before they shove him backwards against the mattress. 

One hand is pressed flat against his sternum to pin him there, squarely between flesh and metal, curving slightly along the coalescence of the two. The yearning in Qrow’s eyes dips into something distinctly raw, there again after all these years, something far too complicated to decipher. But he does not speak, does not bother to, allowing naught but his fingertips to do the talking for him.

He undoes the first few buttons of James’ coat, tugs his tie loose, sets to work on unbuttoning his shirt. Short, precise movements, slow and meticulous, his gaze burning like ice held to bare skin. He trails lower, his skin against the dip between flesh and metal splintering along his nerves like lightning across a nebulous sky.

“I’ve always wondered how far down the metal went,” Qrow muses, a low purr in his chest, accompanied with that age-old smirk that James knows entails nothing but trouble.

James expects there to be muted curiosity, a wonder that accompanies the unknown, but there is nothing in Qrow but anticipation. There is nothing but hunger, nothing but _want_ , heavy behind every movement, bright against the gleam of starlight in his eyes. His fingers trace the divide along James’ sternum, the touch sparking like electricity left to skitter and catch through every frayed nerve ending. 

He seems to preen at the full-body shiver that the action elicits. That junction has always been remarkably sensitive. It is that seal where cold metal and heated skin meet, tumultuous like the point in which a fissure bleeds out into the ocean, where seething magma and frigid water clash and harden. James’ chest heaves, heart pounds, but he does not shy away, does not come close.

He might have, long ago when his breaths were still too thin, where his ribs were still too shallow, where his bones were still too weak. He might have if it wasn’t Qrow, there after all these years, never once running, never gone for very long. 

Soon, lips press to James’ collarbone - the one carved from metal. The kisses are soft, lingering, like the faint touch of a breeze that drifts through an open window. Qrow trails lower, past the small vents that glow blue, along the curve of an artificial pectoral muscle. James wonders what he is looking for. There is nothing underneath the metal, nothing but wires and sockets and junctions that creak when left alone for too long.

“I don’t feel much on that side,” James murmurs. There is a wry smile on his lips. “If you were wondering.”

It has improved over the years, progressing far past mere pressure and heat, but it is nowhere close to mimicking the sensations he feels on his left side. Small touches are imperceptible. Qrow’s lips are only there because he sees that they are. That is just how it is, because while technology is wondrous, it is not magical.

Though, for a moment, he may believe magic is a small part of healing when Qrow laughs. There is no sense of time, not when Qrow glances up at him, electric blue clashing with the petal-light red of his irises. There is nothing left but Qrow, the new axis that the world revolves around, the new point that Remnant itself breathes from.

There is something far more exquisite in Qrow’s eyes, something too nuanced for James to decipher. It is softer than the press of his lips to James’ skin again, right along the border between skin and metal, the pulse of fire that passes as they brush against him.

“I know that,” Qrow tells him, “but it’s still you.”

Not a part of him, not a piece of him that rattles with Dust, not a portion of him that is distinctly its own entity. There is no taunting, no goading, no smirk and quip that digs under skin and muscle and bone; he speaks as if he genuinely believes it, as if it is a truth that he has always held, and there is nothing more world-shattering than that.

There is nothing else that snatches the moon from where James last saw it, no longer in the sky but instead pulsing bright in Qrow’s eyes, on his skin, in his hair. He looks lovely like this, James thinks, lovely when he is no longer hiding, when he has been left out for the world to see. 

Qrow’s fingers trail back upwards. They glide against James’ abdomen, his sternum, his collar, the sensation skittering down the ridges of his spine. He tries not to arch into the touch, but it becomes a losing battle when Qrow’s lips return, heavier now, open-mouthed with hints of teeth. There is reverence in the touch rather than curiosity, as if James is someone to cherish, someone that is _whole_.

Qrow is rough as if he does not care, or perhaps he does. Maybe he cares about James and not about the surgical drains and intravenous catheters that weep fire into his blood. Cares about the man beneath him and not the memories of hundreds of stitches and staples alike left in places that Aura could not mend. Cares enough to leave marks of his own, ones that will also fade, but the memories are what remain.

James does not know what this is, does not immediately recognize the thrill that flits beneath his skin like a spark from colliding steel. He does not recognize the weight in his chest, pounding against muscle and metal alike as if it is trying desperately to free itself. Qrow’s lips eventually meet his again, not as desperate as before, but it is just as mesmerizing, just as mind-numbing as the hand that palms James through his trousers.

There is an unspoken question, lingering like the electricity that thrums between nerves and wires. James’ hands return to Qrow’s hips and pull him closer. He slots one thigh between Qrow’s, breathing in the broken sound that he makes. There is a bit of fumbling, worse now that Qrow starts to grind against him again, but he eventually manages to get James’ belt and buttons undone.

Qrow makes the _filthiest_ noise when he pulls James’ cock out of his trousers. He breaks away from the kiss, panting a little, glancing down with hazy eyes. James sees the mischievous smirk on Qrow’s lips before he leans in to kiss just under his jaw. Trails lower, hot against the column of his throat, heady where his breaths melt over his skin. 

“I have to say,” Qrow finally muses aloud, “I’m surprised this isn’t metal, too.”

It takes a strength James doesn’t know he has to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Less talking, Qrow.”

Qrow laughs, softer than ever before, a whisper fainter than Dust and the pulse it swathes. James can feel it, airy behind the next kiss pressed to his skin. The lilt of his voice drips nothing but danger, almost as frustrating as the feather-light strokes against James’ cock, “What happens if I don’t?” 

James’ hand weaves through his hair. Holds tight and tugs him back, the arch of his throat lovely, the twinge in it accompanied by a sharp breath. Qrow’s cheeks burn brighter, but for the most part, he is unphased, a spark burning bright in his eyes like a matchstick on the verge of catching.

“Do you want to find out?” James deadpans.

He doesn’t miss the way Qrow’s hips grind just a little harder. Qrow’s grip tightens, strokes once, the drag of it filthy, scalding. There is a hint of teeth to his smirk, a challenge, a goad. Through the rasp of his voice, there is a mild trace of amusement when he purrs, “That sounds like a threat. It’d work better if you weren’t threatening me with a good time.”

James reaches with the other hand to hook into Qrow’s trousers. Undoes the buttons with blessedly steady fingers, pulls him ever closer as he murmurs, “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m a gift.”

“A terror,” James corrects. “Horrendous.”

Qrow’s smile only crooks higher. “Did the third eyebrow come with a thesaurus?” 

James laughs in spite of himself. He lets go in favor of trailing lower, against Qrow’s jaw, his lips, his throat. His fingers are loose where they curl and then grip, digging ever so lightly on either side, and James wonders whose pulse it is he feels over the curve of his thumb.

Qrow is not fragile. He is not fragile even with his throat bared, his eyes heavy, his cock hard and straining against him. He is not fragile, but there is a fragility to the pliance there is in the way he surrenders to the touch.

There is trust, James realizes, there is trust when Qrow’s fingers curl loosely over his wrist. 

He can almost feel the hitch in Qrow’s breath before he hears it, hissed out between them as his cock is pulled free. Qrow is impatient, needy, giving in immediately to grind their hips together, a small shiver running down his spine. He does not stop moving, the languid drag of his cock over James’ maddening, the want in his eyes scalding. 

James’ fingers twinge, press harder, Qrow’s pulse hard against his own, and then he pulls him into another kiss. It is more experimental than it is demanding - soft, lingering, melting together, a shared breath heavier than the too-tight squeeze of his ribcage over the rush in his chest. The friction is pleasant, but hardly enough, and James aches to delve further, aches nearly enough to break when he murmurs against Qrow’s lips, “How do you want it?”

There is only mild ambivalence, because he is not _inexperienced_ , necessarily, but intimacy also is not a priority. He wonders how long it has been since he last cared. Since he last tried. Years, maybe, spanning longer than he can remember; years that feel like centuries when it is Qrow he waits on with a bated breath, like eons when it is Qrow he has always been coming back to.

The resulting grin is perilous enough to send James’ heart pounding in his throat. Qrow’s voice crooks low - a deliberate act, because there is no way it can be anything but deliberate, not with how it sends blood scalding through veins and electricity splintering through wires - as he drawls, “Dunno if it was obvious or not, but I planned on fucking _you_ tonight.”

Despite the apprehension, a thrill runs down James’ spine. It is a feral kind of hunger that has him kissing Qrow again, wanting more than he is given, more than he is allowed. He removes his fingers from where they press against the flutter in Qrow’s throat, breaking away just enough to tentatively say, “It’s been . . . a while since I’ve done this. But I trust you.”

The movement of Qrow’s hips is as slow as a prayer, as heavy as a sin, the drag of his cock against James’ incredibly distracting. Qrow’s lips ghost over his own, not quite a kiss, promising with a soft murmur, “I’ll take real good care of you.”

James has never believed anything else as quickly and sincerely as this.

He fumbles for a moment to reach into his nightstand, embarrassingly clumsy from the press of teeth and lips against his throat as he does so, but he finally manages to retrieve the lube. He watches as Qrow removes the rings on his fingers one by one, setting them aside, the glint of silver in the night a promise in and of itself.

They are a part of Qrow, laying upon his nightstand until morning comes. They are there until they cannot be any longer, until the both of them must rise as the sun does and carry out their respective duties.

But James does not consider the desolate morning that will come once he feels the first pass of Qrow’s fingertips against his entrance. It is almost unnervingly foreign, some echo memory of a time long ago that he barely remembers, but he wills himself to relax regardless. He has never been one for this kind of intimacy, but for Qrow, he would do anything.

He would sacrifice anything, would unwind at the seams and unravel to the barest components of himself if it is for Qrow. But this is not sacrificial - fingers that press into him, slow and careful, heart-wrenchingly considerate with every movement. He takes what is given, takes until he remembers how to yield, takes until he is pliant under Qrow’s hands.

He is soothed by the open-mouthed kisses that Qrow presses against his skin. They start just beneath the joint of his mechanical knee, trailing lower, down along his thigh. There are teeth against the edge where metal stops, right where his thigh meets his groin, the sensation pulsing like liquid fire in his veins. Qrow trails further, avoiding the obvious need, instead focusing on sensitive flesh, scarred skin, seamless metal.

He reaches James’ sternum, pushes a second finger alongside the first, and James knocks his head back against the pillow. Jaw set, the tendon in his neck tense, and Qrow murmurs, “Relax, James.”

But that is not the problem, James irritably thinks - the problem lies in the fingers that flex and stretch, working him open as luxurious as early spring snowfall, so different and so raw that it only serves to remind him of just how long it has been. It is a different kind of vulnerability altogether, one that is perilous, one that he has not allowed himself to give.

But inside him, against him, between his outstretched thighs and glancing up with eyes as red as the linings of his veins, there is only Qrow. There is comfort in that, knowing that it is only Qrow there, that his attention is turned towards James and not the idle curiosity of moonlight against his metal. 

There is a slow dawn of something sweet inside him that he cannot quite reach, distant and muted up until it is not; Qrow crooks his fingers just so, and James bucks his hips, hisses out between his clenched teeth, melts at the mind-numbing ripple of pleasure that laps up his spine. Qrow smirks and repeats the motion, grinding deliberately against that spot, and James almost loses himself to the thunderclap that seethes beneath his skin.

Frantically, James reaches out to fist Qrow’s hair and draw him into a kiss. Qrow sighs against his lips, shivers at the next tug in his hair, fingers stilling for just a moment before they continue. The rush of bliss between his hips pulses like the beat of his heart, heavy in his jugular, his wrists, the curves of his thumbs. 

He has forgotten what it means to be torn apart so thoroughly and put back together again; he has forgotten what it means to succumb to such a unique sensation, one that leaves him hanging at a ledge that he cannot quite fall over on his own.

But he does not want to, however exquisite this torture is, however maddening the bliss becomes. He might not have allowed himself this if it wasn’t Qrow. If it wasn’t Qrow filling him, dragging him to that edge, kissing him with enough desperation to forget about the stress of tomorrow. Or rather, it is that desperation that reminds him what this is - that it is tonight, and perhaps only tonight.

And if it is only tonight, then James will accept that. He accepts it as willingly as he takes the third finger that presses into him, newly slicked and glistening in the moonlight. James has to break away to remind himself how to breathe. He has to cling to the sheets beneath him to avoid the pulsing need between his thighs, dripping precome onto his stomach.

He almost loses it to the pass of Qrow’s thumb over the head of his cock. The touch is feather-light, not enough to send him crumbling but enough to make him _ache._ Qrow watches with an intensity in his eyes like none other, almost feral, almost perilous; slowly, he settles deep, curves his fingers once more, grinds until James makes a broken sound.

“Qrow.” It is almost visceral, this yearning that renders James needy, hungry, pounding in his throat and onto the tip of his tongue. It has been so long, too long, and he wants more than ever, wants more than he knows how to say. “I’m ready.”

It is desperate enough to sound like a plea, rough and breathless enough for Qrow to give pause. James does not know how to convey what he wants. He does not know if he is capable of much more than grinding back against Qrow’s fingers, the action searching, begging, impatient for more.

Qrow’s other hand passes over his thighs. “Brothers,” he breathes, almost reverent, more to himself than anything. “Yeah, I - I’ve got you.”

A soft hiss leaves James when Qrow withdraws his fingers. He quells the urge to demand more when he watches the way Qrow reaches for the lube again, his already slicked fingers moving languidly along his cock. Slow, rhythmic, adding lube as he goes, and James has never wanted anything more.

Soon, the head of his cock is pressed to James’ slicked hole, teasing but not quite breaching him yet. “Just breathe,” Qrow reminds him, somewhat strained, and James nods.

They are not perfect. They are far from it, torn jaggedly like a wound that refuses to mend; there is enough loss to crack the very foundations of Remnant, enough betrayal to tear through themselves, but none of that matters at the moment. What matters is that the bandages have been unwound, smooth and unhurried, finally allowing the raw stretch of skin beneath to heal.

There is a uniquely fragile thing that sits in James’ chest, moulded from glass, ready to shatter at any moment. But if there is anyone he can trust, it is Qrow. If there is anything he can leave in Qrow’s hands and trust not to break, even with misfortune, even after being deemed a blight, it is this.

It is not perfect, but it is enough. 

Enough to alleviate what has been aching, enough for the night, perfect enough when Qrow finally slots into him. 

It is both like coming home and like holding shattered pieces back together, both steady and precarious, both far too much and hardly enough. There is a unique clarity that comes to being stretched and filled, one that draws the breath from Jame lungs, has it bleeding out into the space between them. Qrow grinds forwards, presses them flush together, and finally halts altogether when there is nothing left to give.

That is what Qrow always does - gives until he cannot, gives until he is nothing, gives until he nearly falls apart. He gives, and he quakes, and he is painstakingly considerate, holding still despite the shaky sigh he makes against James’ temple.

It takes a moment before James learns how to breathe again. His ribcage finally accommodates the pull of oxygen into his lungs, and for a moment, he is whole; for a moment, all is still. Qrow is careful, steadfast, and James does not know if it is Qrow or himself who needs the time, the patience, the moment that seeps into an eternity between them.

“Good?” Qrow asks.

Again, James can only nod.

“Need to hear it, James.”

“Yes,” James hisses out.

And finally _, finally,_ Qrow begins to move.

He pulls out, inch by inch, the slow drag of his cock mesmerizing, and already, James forgets how to breathe, how to think, how to function. Qrow is meticulous, just as he always is, the push and pull like that of the dance between the moon and the tide, something so whole and absolute that James can do nothing but hold on. 

It is experimental, at first, a mapping, a yearning. James’ body clings to him, almost refusing to let go, the sensation unlike any other. Qrow does not strain, necessarily, but he focuses, angles his hips, searches for something that James finds himself craving, _wanting_. He knows how to surrender, but this is not surrendering; this is relinquishing, this is _trust._

He knows that if there is one thing he can hold on to, one person he can return to, it is Qrow. He knows this rush in his veins, this jump in his chest, this swell in his lungs and in his throat. He groans unbidden at the sudden burst behind his eyelids, the white-hot flare inside him, clenching hard enough around Qrow to elicit a ragged moan. 

From then on, it is easier than James expects to let go. It is easy to melt into Qrow, to pick up the rhythm he sets, to succumb to the flames that roll across the curve of his spine in waves. 

He is blissfully full with the burn of the sun between his thighs and the caress of the moon in the thrum of his blood. It is frantic, desperate, a calamity to the kiss that he yanks Qrow into. It is a needy sort of hunger that leaves them gasping, moulding, becoming one. It is a breaking point, like glass on the verge of shattering, gunpowder seconds from igniting, the cosmos moments away from tearing itself apart. 

There is no guarantee, no absolute, nothing as whole and consuming as this. Not tomorrow, not the sunset, not the weeks they can only hope will follow before the time has come.

This is the only guarantee there is left in Remnant - the edge that waits for him, the grind of Qrow’s cock against the sweetest part inside him, the press of Qrow’s fingertips on the divide in his torso.

He arches his back and presses into the touch, only vaguely aware of the ragged groans that leave him before he can stifle them. It is both too much and not enough, a spark that wants to ignite but only ever comes close, a heat that builds but does not erupt. He does not know how to beg; he only knows how to take, and take he does, full in a way that is mesmerizing.

It is something instinctual, almost feral, the broken noise that leaves him as he wraps his hand around his cock. Qrow moves his fingers away from his abdomen and wraps with his own, and they stroke together, however clumsy that it is.

But it is enough. Enough, until James’ eyes roll back, until his veins scald with more adrenaline than blood, until there are streaks of white against flesh and metal alike. For a moment, James is only distantly aware of Qrow’s lips against his temple, the filthy moan he makes, the pulsing heat inside him that gives as much as it takes.

James is still quaking when he notices the way Qrow falters, the tremble that stems as deep as his bones, the sheer restraint that it takes for him to slow to a stop. He is steady, blessedly steady, but James wants nothing to do with it. He tangles his fingers in Qrow’s hair once more, tugging him close, sheathing him deep despite the white-hot flare through his hips.

Qrow hisses and grinds forth as if he cannot help it, as if James draws him just as the shattered moon draws starlight. “Finish,” James growls. “Show me what you like.”

Qrow whines and senselessly fucks into him. There is pressure, both expanding and collapsing, not gravity but painfully close to it, overwhelming enough for James to let out a broken sound. But he does not let go, does not do much other than writhe and gasp and take what is given. 

There is an odd kind of satisfaction that comes with the wildfire that engulfs him, the groans that are ripped from him, the quake in his thighs that he cannot control. It is worth it, James idly thinks, being used like this, being fucked as desperately as this. It is worth seeing the desperation in Qrow that he has never seen anywhere else, the white-knuckled grip on either side of him, the wounded noise that Qrow eventually makes.

James would do anything to hear Qrow whine like that again, would do anything to immortalize the ragged moan that leaves him before his hips stutter and his grip goes white. The sight of him is captivating, lip pulled between his teeth as his eyes flutter shut, cheeks flushed the same red as that of the marks that slowly fade against his throat. 

There is no lovelier sight than this - Qrow falling apart above him, trembling between his thighs until he cannot keep himself upright anymore. There is nothing more gratifying, especially when the sensation is so novel - filled so wholly, warm in a way he almost does not recognize, very nearly too much to handle.

But there is familiarity to the way Qrow turns to nuzzle against the crook of his neck, lips pressed there as he murmurs out faint, dazed words of praise that James hears distantly. The high that follows is one that he slowly falls from, delving into a stillness that he readily succumbs to.

For now, there is no tomorrow, no threat that looms like dawn on the verge of breaking. There is only Qrow now, around him, inside him, in his lungs and in his heart. Qrow in his arms, against his skin, pressed closer than James ever knew possible.

Silence follows, filled with their breaths, with their hearts pounding in sync, before Qrow finally pulls out of him. James does not remember what it means to breathe without Qrow there to complete him; he clenches around nothing, shivers at the odd sensation that drips from his entrance, and already, he feels pitifully empty.

The ache settles slowly, pulsing dully somewhere beneath muscle and along bone, but he does not mind. Qrow glances up at him. The moonlight is in his eyes, drawn to the voids of his pupils, igniting his irises to a faint pink like the pulsing embers of a flame left to settle. There is a secret there, a confession, a request that only the gleam of the moon unveils - but he does not speak and instead allows the touch to speak for him.

There is a bliss like none other that makes up for the ache. There is Qrow settling clumsily by his side, and soon after, the brush of his lips over James’ shoulder. He moves lower to trace the curve of one artificial clavicle, the dip of a pectoral muscle that thrums, the sensitive delve of flesh and metal that meld together like glass, like puzzle pieces, like silks weaved to perfection. 

An inexplicable warmth flares in James’ chest. He wonders if the fans beneath have malfunctioned, if the wires have been snipped and left to spark upon contact. James’ mechanical hand rests on Qrow’s own, and he does not flinch, does not shift, the twitch in his fingers against James’ barely perceptible amongst pseudo Dust-infused nerves. 

Needlessly, James says, “Stay.”

Qrow pulls away just a bit, but it is not to leave, to run, to hide. He does not give a confirmation, but James does not need one. Qrow’s ear rests right over his heart, along the convergence of flesh and metal, and does not breathe a word about leaving.

Another day, they will face that battle; tonight, they will face what has been simmering between them for so long.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hello to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ospreyxxx) ✨


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